Re: Grand Battle S3G1! (Round Two: The Great Battlefield)
07-07-2011, 01:50 PM
Originally posted on MSPA by Lord Paradise.
TinTen and Huebert peered over the ridge. Ester and Walters were quaking in their boots behind them, probably wondering what psychological torment accompanies being converted to Plaid.
TinTen confessed to himself that he’d been expecting some sprawling, technologically advanced encampment, but the so-called “Tartan Tyrant” had no more property to his name than a rotted-out bunker with a single, plaid-clad soldier guarding the entrance. Still, the various skirmishes dotting the landscape seemed to be keeping these coordinates a curiously wide berth.
He relayed all this information to Tor over the walkie-talkie. “Neon sign above bunker door reads ‘the Trench.’ Stupidly ostentatious and bothersome: whole operation stinks of Scofflaw.”
”Get back to the chopper,” counseled Tor, who had volunteered to stay behind and cover their exit. ”We’ll regroup and see if we can’t come up with a better strategy than ‘sneak up on the front door’.”
”Negative,” said TinTen. “Going in with Huebert.”
Huebert was taken aback by this. “Pardon?”
“Scofflaw too monomaniacal to risk ending the round before done playing with new toys.” The Meipi hopped over the ridge and approached the entrance to the Trench, appendages and weapons raised. "Worst case scenario is conversion, risk of death minimal." Huebert sighed and motioned for the two Browns to follow.
TinTen had been counting on the Plaid at the door (a six-foot-six monster of a man) menacing them with a rifle and forcefully escorting them to his leader; he was far more disturbed when the man wasn’t even carrying a gun, but seemed to be watching over a pile of two dozen weapons of different colors. “Weapons check,” he said, smiling.
TinTen glanced over at Huebert to make sure his partner was equally unamused by this turn of events. “Fire,” he ordered the Ester and Walters.
The two Browns diligently raised their weapons and pulled the triggers, achieving a series of impotent clicking noises. Ester cursed. The Plaid broke out laughing. “You don’t know what this place is, do you?” he chuckled. “Leave your weapons and come in, the big man told me to send any funny-looking fellas right to him.”
Walters panicked and grabbed for his walkie-talkie. “Captain!” he screamed. “Weapon malfunction! Brown alert! I think this Plaid might punch me pretty hard!” The Plaid patted the soldier comfortingly on the shoulder. “He’s touching me,” Walters told Tor.
TinTen took control of the situation. “Private, lay weapon aside,” he commanded, pulling out his own radio. “No need to worry, captain. Some of Scofflaw’s… believe phrase is ‘dortul.’”
”Be careful,” cautioned Tor.
TinTen, Huebert, and the two browns relinquished their weapons, each slightly more reluctant than the next, and allowed themselves to be led into the bunker.
“Figures,” said Huebert when they were inside.
It was a bar. “’Figures,’ indeed,” sneered TinTen. Soldiers of all four colors were drinking and playing at cards alongside a dozen Plaids. Tending the bar was the figure TinTen had come to hate above all others in the battle, except now wearing a kilt. Scofflaw was embroiled in a discussion with two Blues and a woman whose color could not be identified, because she wasn’t wearing any clothes. “Richard Chamberlain was one of the great gay icons of Hollywood. When Shogun first premiered I must have worn out my—TINTEN FUCKING NAAMXE! Come here!” Scofflaw pounded his hand on the bar and made enough of a scene that TinTen felt socially obliged to comply, walking up and taking a stool. ”So, guys, this is TinTen and Huebert. They’re each half a contestant in that battle I was telling you about. TinTen, Huebert, this is Little Boy Blue, Little Boy 2, and Jessica. It’s Jessica’s birthday.”
Jessica nodded and groped for one of the shots that Scofflaw was pouring. A voice that seemed to be coming from the floor behind the bar made a sound that probably was supposed to be a giggle, but came out as a gurgle. “Charmed,” said TinTen. Huebert looked as though he wanted to say something to Jessica, but didn’t.
It occurred to TinTen that Scofflaw was going a miraculous job at keeping them off-guard. ”So the Browns over there, I assume they’re Tor’s? He’ll be taking the pacifist route, I imagine. Trying to put an end to the brainwashing. I considered that, briefly. What do you think will happen if Tor does his phoenix thing and comes back a slightly paler shade of brown, hmmm?”
”If not taking pacifist route,” asked TinTen, “What’s endgame of all this? Doesn’t seem to be first step towards conquering the battlefield.”
”Conquering the battlefield… Yes, I considered that, too. Here, Huebert, help yourself to a beer.”
”Don’t help self to beer,” barked TinTen.
“I wasn’t going to.” Huebert pouted slightly.
”Anyway,” continued Scofflaw, continuing to refill the blues’ glasses, ”My ‘endgame’ is to make the war more fun. And there’s little enough fun to be had in a game where every server is PvP, hmm? So, I jury-rigged a device that casts a field about a mile across where the weapons don’t work, and guess what it produced as a byproduct? Tell them what it produced as a byproduct, Alfalfa Male!”
Scofflaw stomped on the ground and that voice from the floor shouted “ALCOHOL!” The shouter sounded very, very drunk.
”Alcohol,” agreed Scofflaw, as though he were saying “amen.” ”And thus was born ‘the Trench.’”
TinTen considered this. “Peace, for a mile all around?” he asked cautiously.
”To a point. These people are terrible at peace. See, that red keeps buying rounds for that yellow in the hopes that he can get the yellow drunk enough to let some missile launch codes slip. That green and that red have each decided that the other army sounds way better, so they’re planning on going out of the safe zone and shooting each other at the same time, but of course they’re both plotting to betray each other. And that blue over there in the corner? She’s a yellow. She stole Jessica’s clothes and she’s planning to infiltrate the blue base.”
”They make her look fat,” chimed in Jessica. “Give those back,” she added, to nobody in particular. Scofflaw gave her another shot, and she apparently decided that that was what she had meant.
“This device,” offered TinTen. “Could range be expanded to encompass entire battlefield?”
Scofflaw shrugged. ”That’s not the next step. The next step is to rework the field so that it actually nullifies the soldiers’ colors. Destroys their allegiances altogether, reestablishes free will until they leave. I’m a couple hours of hard work away from that particular breakthrough, and I’m not working particularly hard at the moment, so I could use your help, or Dr. Nyoka’s.”
No allegiances, thought TinTen. The war could end in one move. Common sense interjected, in the form of Huebert: “You’re up to something,” he accused the bartender.
”Usually,” admitted Scofflaw. ”But the question is, are you boys down for something? Jessica! Have you ever been with a cephalopod before?”
”Not on m’birthdaaaaay!” Jessica clapped her hands, at no point becoming cognizant of TinTen three stools over.
“Focus,” said TinTen. The Meipi paused for a moment, knowing he was making a mistake. “Huebert, step outside, tell Captain Kajan everything that happened here. Scofflaw.”
”It’s ‘the Tartan Tyrant’ now, actually.”
”No. Scofflaw. Show the generator.”
TinTen and Huebert peered over the ridge. Ester and Walters were quaking in their boots behind them, probably wondering what psychological torment accompanies being converted to Plaid.
TinTen confessed to himself that he’d been expecting some sprawling, technologically advanced encampment, but the so-called “Tartan Tyrant” had no more property to his name than a rotted-out bunker with a single, plaid-clad soldier guarding the entrance. Still, the various skirmishes dotting the landscape seemed to be keeping these coordinates a curiously wide berth.
He relayed all this information to Tor over the walkie-talkie. “Neon sign above bunker door reads ‘the Trench.’ Stupidly ostentatious and bothersome: whole operation stinks of Scofflaw.”
”Get back to the chopper,” counseled Tor, who had volunteered to stay behind and cover their exit. ”We’ll regroup and see if we can’t come up with a better strategy than ‘sneak up on the front door’.”
”Negative,” said TinTen. “Going in with Huebert.”
Huebert was taken aback by this. “Pardon?”
“Scofflaw too monomaniacal to risk ending the round before done playing with new toys.” The Meipi hopped over the ridge and approached the entrance to the Trench, appendages and weapons raised. "Worst case scenario is conversion, risk of death minimal." Huebert sighed and motioned for the two Browns to follow.
TinTen had been counting on the Plaid at the door (a six-foot-six monster of a man) menacing them with a rifle and forcefully escorting them to his leader; he was far more disturbed when the man wasn’t even carrying a gun, but seemed to be watching over a pile of two dozen weapons of different colors. “Weapons check,” he said, smiling.
TinTen glanced over at Huebert to make sure his partner was equally unamused by this turn of events. “Fire,” he ordered the Ester and Walters.
The two Browns diligently raised their weapons and pulled the triggers, achieving a series of impotent clicking noises. Ester cursed. The Plaid broke out laughing. “You don’t know what this place is, do you?” he chuckled. “Leave your weapons and come in, the big man told me to send any funny-looking fellas right to him.”
Walters panicked and grabbed for his walkie-talkie. “Captain!” he screamed. “Weapon malfunction! Brown alert! I think this Plaid might punch me pretty hard!” The Plaid patted the soldier comfortingly on the shoulder. “He’s touching me,” Walters told Tor.
TinTen took control of the situation. “Private, lay weapon aside,” he commanded, pulling out his own radio. “No need to worry, captain. Some of Scofflaw’s… believe phrase is ‘dortul.’”
”Be careful,” cautioned Tor.
TinTen, Huebert, and the two browns relinquished their weapons, each slightly more reluctant than the next, and allowed themselves to be led into the bunker.
“Figures,” said Huebert when they were inside.
It was a bar. “’Figures,’ indeed,” sneered TinTen. Soldiers of all four colors were drinking and playing at cards alongside a dozen Plaids. Tending the bar was the figure TinTen had come to hate above all others in the battle, except now wearing a kilt. Scofflaw was embroiled in a discussion with two Blues and a woman whose color could not be identified, because she wasn’t wearing any clothes. “Richard Chamberlain was one of the great gay icons of Hollywood. When Shogun first premiered I must have worn out my—TINTEN FUCKING NAAMXE! Come here!” Scofflaw pounded his hand on the bar and made enough of a scene that TinTen felt socially obliged to comply, walking up and taking a stool. ”So, guys, this is TinTen and Huebert. They’re each half a contestant in that battle I was telling you about. TinTen, Huebert, this is Little Boy Blue, Little Boy 2, and Jessica. It’s Jessica’s birthday.”
Jessica nodded and groped for one of the shots that Scofflaw was pouring. A voice that seemed to be coming from the floor behind the bar made a sound that probably was supposed to be a giggle, but came out as a gurgle. “Charmed,” said TinTen. Huebert looked as though he wanted to say something to Jessica, but didn’t.
It occurred to TinTen that Scofflaw was going a miraculous job at keeping them off-guard. ”So the Browns over there, I assume they’re Tor’s? He’ll be taking the pacifist route, I imagine. Trying to put an end to the brainwashing. I considered that, briefly. What do you think will happen if Tor does his phoenix thing and comes back a slightly paler shade of brown, hmmm?”
”If not taking pacifist route,” asked TinTen, “What’s endgame of all this? Doesn’t seem to be first step towards conquering the battlefield.”
”Conquering the battlefield… Yes, I considered that, too. Here, Huebert, help yourself to a beer.”
”Don’t help self to beer,” barked TinTen.
“I wasn’t going to.” Huebert pouted slightly.
”Anyway,” continued Scofflaw, continuing to refill the blues’ glasses, ”My ‘endgame’ is to make the war more fun. And there’s little enough fun to be had in a game where every server is PvP, hmm? So, I jury-rigged a device that casts a field about a mile across where the weapons don’t work, and guess what it produced as a byproduct? Tell them what it produced as a byproduct, Alfalfa Male!”
Scofflaw stomped on the ground and that voice from the floor shouted “ALCOHOL!” The shouter sounded very, very drunk.
”Alcohol,” agreed Scofflaw, as though he were saying “amen.” ”And thus was born ‘the Trench.’”
TinTen considered this. “Peace, for a mile all around?” he asked cautiously.
”To a point. These people are terrible at peace. See, that red keeps buying rounds for that yellow in the hopes that he can get the yellow drunk enough to let some missile launch codes slip. That green and that red have each decided that the other army sounds way better, so they’re planning on going out of the safe zone and shooting each other at the same time, but of course they’re both plotting to betray each other. And that blue over there in the corner? She’s a yellow. She stole Jessica’s clothes and she’s planning to infiltrate the blue base.”
”They make her look fat,” chimed in Jessica. “Give those back,” she added, to nobody in particular. Scofflaw gave her another shot, and she apparently decided that that was what she had meant.
“This device,” offered TinTen. “Could range be expanded to encompass entire battlefield?”
Scofflaw shrugged. ”That’s not the next step. The next step is to rework the field so that it actually nullifies the soldiers’ colors. Destroys their allegiances altogether, reestablishes free will until they leave. I’m a couple hours of hard work away from that particular breakthrough, and I’m not working particularly hard at the moment, so I could use your help, or Dr. Nyoka’s.”
No allegiances, thought TinTen. The war could end in one move. Common sense interjected, in the form of Huebert: “You’re up to something,” he accused the bartender.
”Usually,” admitted Scofflaw. ”But the question is, are you boys down for something? Jessica! Have you ever been with a cephalopod before?”
”Not on m’birthdaaaaay!” Jessica clapped her hands, at no point becoming cognizant of TinTen three stools over.
“Focus,” said TinTen. The Meipi paused for a moment, knowing he was making a mistake. “Huebert, step outside, tell Captain Kajan everything that happened here. Scofflaw.”
”It’s ‘the Tartan Tyrant’ now, actually.”
”No. Scofflaw. Show the generator.”